


We Are Grasped By What We Cannot Grasp

by coffeeguru



Series: Do I Dare Disturb The Universe? [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Banter, Conversations, F/M, Gen, Laughter, Tears, The Fade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-25
Updated: 2016-04-04
Packaged: 2018-04-06 04:05:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 17,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4207221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeguru/pseuds/coffeeguru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Varric spills a few secrets about his writing of the Tale of the Champion. Or: Hawke & Varric have conversations in her bedroom. And yes, elsewhere.  This is essentially a series of one-shots, prompt vignettes, and anything else that strikes my fancy involving this particular couple of crazies. They will all take place within the same universe as Where Legend Remains.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this has gone from a vignette to something far more, where bits of my Marian and the Chest have their stories told. There will be spoilers for Where Legend Remains throughout. You have been warned.

“Let me see.”

“Maker’s hairy back, knock it off, Hawke.”

“No, let me see!”

Varric sighed, sprinkled the blotting powder on the ink, and tapped the parchment on the table to remove the excess before rolling it up.  “You know the rules.  You don’t get to see the chapter until it’s finished.”

“But you’ve been working on it for weeks! There’s no possible way that our forays into the Deep Roads should take you this long to write.”  There was a hint of a whine at the end of her voice, and he barely kept from grimacing.  He loved the woman, but by all of Andraste’s ample attributes she could be a royal pain in the ass when she was laid up and bored.

“This isn’t just another ‘hack and slash and save the day,’ chapter, you know that as well as I do.  Hell, you were there!  The shit that went down with Sandal alone is almost indescribable. So my apologies if the perfectionist in me won’t let you read something unfinished.”

She laid back against the pillows with a groan.  “I hate this.”

“Well, to be fair, no one particularly likes being run through with a sword.  Especially by the de facto leader of a species that no one really understands.  It doesn’t do great things for your reputation, or your innards.”  That said, he moved over to the bed and popped another of Anders’ healing concoctions, which she took without argument, grimacing at the taste as it went down.

“Hey, I still won.”

“Sure you did. Congratulations, you didn’t die, yet.”  He gave her a second potion, and though she looked askance at it, she drank.

“So what bet did you lose to get babysitting duties?”

“It was this, or help Daisy with cataloging her various potions.  Considering the fact that she doesn’t know what half of them are, I thought this would be the easier of the two jobs.”

Hawke shuddered slightly at the thought of trying to sort through Merrill’s collection of “may or may not explode and kill you” bottles that she kept like Anders’ stray kittens.  That little movement shot pain through her and she grunted in annoyance.  “Alright, fine, so if you won’t read the next section to me, you can answer some questions.”

Varric looked up from where he was brushing the sand off the table.  “An author never reveals his secrets.”

“Well, that’s bullshit.  You’re here, I’m injured, you’re answering.”  He tried to look stern, as though he would actually hold out on her, but then pulled a chair over to her bedside and sat, waiting.

“Alright. Let’s see what you ask, and I’ll decide what to answer.”

Hawke frowned.  “I’m not sure if I like those terms, but I’m kind of at a disadvantage.”

“That you are.  So go ahead. Shoot straight and true.”

“Fine.  Why don’t you ever establish if I’m male or female in the Tale?”

He grinned.  “Adds to the mystique.  Leaving you vague allows the reader to put themselves in your place.  Plus, I couldn’t possibly capture your beauty on the page.”

She made a gagging noise.  “Uh huh.  Fine, question number two:  why me?  Why am I the hero of this story and not you?”

“That one’s easy.  A human Champion with humble beginnings and the illicit nature of being an apostate is a much easier sell than a hairy dwarf with a penchant for words and an obsession with his crossbow.”

“I don’t know.  I’d read about a hairy dwarf.  The crossbow would have to go, though.  Makes people feel inadequate.  Who can live up to her?” she asked, gesturing across the room at the weapon in question.

“Good point.  She is one of a kind,” he said adoringly.  Again, that retching noise came from the bed.  

“Sorry, something stuck in my throat.” She winked at him.  “And now, question number three. . .why Anders?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Well, yes, I know you’re quite a sorry excuse for a dwarf, but what I’m asking is why did you pair “me” with “Anders” in your story?  I love him, don’t get me wrong, but he’s more than a bit on the ‘unstable and holding a spirit of justice in his head’ side of crazy.”

The dwarf looked slightly uncomfortable. “Yeah, I wasn’t overly pleased with that aspect myself, but honestly it was process of elimination.  Fenris wouldn’t touch an apostate except to chop her head off-”

“Hey! He’s perfectly fine with me. . .as long as he never sees me cast, I don’t smell like lyrium, never say the word magic, and never wear my robes.”  Her lips quirked up.  “Besides, he wouldn’t be able to resist my charm and cheerful demeanor if I really put my mind to it.”

“Yes, I’d love to get _that_ missive.  ‘Your meal ticket has been found naked and impaled on a very large sword, no double entendre intended.  Please advise.’

She had to hold herself while laughing so she wouldn’t tear her stitches.  “Okay,” she gasped, “you win.  Not Fenris.”

“And, as far as I know your tastes don’t run towards the women of our little band of misfits, much to Isabela’s dismay.”

“No, that’s true, though with your vagueries you could have gotten away with it.”

“She’d probably ask for royalties if I wrote her in as your love interest.  And offer pointers that I don’t think my poor dwarven heart could handle.”

“Yes, we must think of your health first, old man,” she replied.

“You wound me.”

“This hole in my side says otherwise.”

“These wounds are deep and emotional.”

“I believe in your dwarven constitution.  You’ll survive, despite your advanced years.”

“I’ll try to hold on,” he responded dryly. “So as you see, that left Anders.  And really, he’s quite a tragic hero: Grey Warden, mage, hunted and haunted, and possessed by a spirit of Justice he really can’t quite control.  And despite it all, he finds love in the bowels of Kirkwall.”

“Writer’s tip: ‘love’ and 'bowels’ should not be in the same sentence.  Ever.  Even I know that.”

“Trust me, I can make it work.”

“How much do you want to bet?”

“Five.”

“Make it ten, and actually worth something.  Oh, and you can’t use the sentence you just came up with.  It’s cheating, and it’s terrible.”

"Swords & Shields terrible, or. . . .”

“Worse.”  Varric shuddered at her response.

“Alright then.  I’ll take that bet, and I will guarantee you that I will sell more copies of this installment than any other to date.”

She put her hand out.  “Deal. There’s no way that’ll happen.”

He took her fingers in his, callouses running over callouses.  It always took an extra effort to extract his hand from hers, but he just assumed it was the moment of the author touching his muse that made his breath hitch at the contact.  A bit like touching a piece of art and having it come alive against your skin.  “Deal.”

They sat that way for a minute and then she broke away with a small groan of pain.  “Okay, Anders makes sense from that standpoint.  I still think you underestimate my sanity if you think I’d share my bed with an unstable Grey Warden with an even more unstable spirit in his head. That’s far too crowded for my taste.  You’d have been better off making yourself the love interest.”

He froze.  That would have been. . .shit.  It would have been the perfect twist.  The author and the hero.  No reveal until the end of the story, a total surprise to everyone.  But that also would have meant a whole other slew of possibilities and fantasies that he simply was not ready to let into his life.  He finally looked back up at Hawke, who was staring at him, a strange look on her face.  “That bad of an idea?”

Varric laughed it off.  “Could you imagine, the two of us? It would be chaos and fire and destruction within a week, at the latest.  Plus, I’m not even sure of the logistics of that particular pairing, and there would have to be research and all sorts of other difficulties so that I could capture it on the page. The capital invested in that alone would be prohibitive.”  He arched an eyebrow. “Unless of course you’re offering….”

“Yes.  Please, hop on up here and have you way with me.  I’m not dying or anything.  Oh wait, yes I am.”  She rolled her eyes at him and then closed them, and he could see that even this bit of bantering was taking its toll on her.

“Stop being so dramatic. You’re not dying. Grievously wounded, sure.  But you’ve already cleared past the ‘will she or won’t she survive’ part of this.  According to Blondie, at least.  And while he may be crazy, he knows his healing magic.”  

She sighed heavily. “Well, I suppose you’re right.  I’ll just have to heal so that you can carry on telling the world of my love in the time of turmoil in Kirkwall.”  Hawke put out her hand, gesturing him closer.  “I do want you to know, though,” she said softly, so that he needed to lean in to hear her.  “If I had to choose one of you.”  She put her fingers on his cheek, brushed along the stubble.  He barely contained the shiver at her touch. “It would be Sebastian.”  She caught him unaware, and the laughter that poured out of her at the expression on his face was clear and pure and as carefree as he had ever heard come from her lips, and he’d give his soul, his fortune, and his name to have her make that sound again.  He knew from that moment on that he was screwed.


	2. I have wrapped  my gaze around you;  and it holds you gently

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Champion reconnects with a friend long thought lost...and immortality is born on the page.

_9:36 Dragon_

_Messere Hawke,_

_Was there ever any doubt that you would become infamous? When I saw the reports out of Kirkwall, I thought I was imagining the name, that I was somehow mistaken. But no, you were the same Marian Hawke I used to play with in the dirt of Lothering, that I, a year younger, idolized as a fearless adventurer. Perhaps you don’t remember me, but I couldn’t forget you. You with your bright eyes and mischievous grin and tendency to get us both in trouble, knees scraped and dirty beyond comprehension as our parents scolded us. And there was never any call of “knife-ear” and you were never “shem.” For some reason the prejudices of the world didn’t touch us in our early days._

_Then came that day when lightning cracked across the sky and caught the tree on fire next to your house. Except, it wasn’t from across the sky. It was from my fingertips. Oh, we tried to hide it, to pretend it was a sudden storm that caused the spark. But we both knew, deep down, that life as I knew it was over for me. Your parents put out the flames, and there was such fear in them as they looked you over, your father asking sternly if you had been the one to start it. You shook your head, and they hadn’t been willing to believe you, until the bolts from my hands drew their attention._

_The look in his eyes when he saw...there was such sadness, regret, now, as I think back. Because he knew what had to be done, what he had to do to keep your family safe. So he brought me home. And told my parents what would have to happen, as they held me tightly in their arms._

_The Templars came. My life changed forever, in more ways than our childlike minds could ever have comprehended. I was so frightened when they whisked me away from my parents, a child who had never seen the world beyond our town limits. That journey...it was overwhelming, and I think I spent my first week crying uncontrollably. It’s honestly all a blur at this point, so much has happened in the time between then and now that those moments, as traumatic as they were to a girl of twelve, are just wisps of the past in my mind. I suspect you have moments that are similar, Champion of Kirkwall._

_Imagine that, two children of Lothering, now with titles and responsibilities and deaths to our names. I know that I do...too many bodies to count, some of them former friends, most of them Darkspawn, but their blood splashes hot on my skin either way when they die. It’s hard to remember then that it’s necessary, the carnage, the horror. But we do it for those we love, and those who trust us to make the hard choices so they don’t have to live with the consequences._

_Have you found someone, I wonder? If not a partner, I hope you have a companion at least, a friend, someone to share the hard times with, who will lend you a shoulder to cry on when the weight of the world comes crashing down and you realize that the problems you face are far greater than one person can handle. I know only too well how that feels, and that the burden is easier with people you can trust at your side. I have someone to keep the worst of the shadows at bay, and he holds me at night, the light in my life that I need more than I should admit. It’s bad for the image of aloofness that we’re so famous for in the Order, but if they have a problem with the smile he brings to my face, they can go straight to the Void. I'd be happy to send them._

_I do hope this letter finds you and your family well. If duties allowed, I would come to Kirkwall to see the Champion in person, but Amaranthine keeps me bound to Ferelden. If you have need of the Wardens, however, please do not hesitate to call upon me. It is the least I can do for my childhood idol._

_Yours in the Maker’s Keeping,_

_Triona Surana  
Warden, Arlessa, Champion, and Old Friend_

 

The edges of the parchment crumpled in her hand. “Shit.”

Leandra looked up from the book she was reading. “Marian! Such language.”

She blew a stray lock of hair out of her face and scowled at the older woman. “It’s completely warranted. Not that it should matter if it’s not, this is my house, after all,” she muttered at the end. “You have no idea who I just got a letter from.”

“No, I wouldn’t, as you have that Mabari of yours, Sceolan, guard the mail as though it’s a treasure horde. Honestly, your paranoia rivals your father’s at times.”

“I learned from the best. And it’s not to keep it from you, Mother,” she replied, more gently. She loved her, but sometimes Leandra could test the Divine’s patience. “I just have too many people interested in stealing from and stabbing me to leave my letters unguarded.” 

Hawke went and sat across from her, handing over the note. Leandra scanned it, eyes widening as she realized who it was from. "Sh-" She caught herself, and Hawke smirked. She mirrored Marian's earlier scowl with one of her own. "Yes, yes, fine. It was possibly warranted in this case." She looked back down at the letter. "I would never have thought...of course I remember her, and then when she was declared Hero of Ferelden...she knew what your father did?"

"Apparently. She was always damn smart, intuitive really. Smarter than I was, am." She paused, still not wanting to believe what she had to ask. "He really reported her to the Templars?" The thought that the man she had looked up to her entire life would willingly lock up another magic user sickened her.

Her mother's expression was sad. "We were so frightened, Malcolm even more than I. The thought of losing you to the Circle...he couldn't bear it. So, he talked to her family, let them know what happened, and offered to report her so they didn't have to."

"He did it to save his own skin, you mean," she snapped.

"No, he did it to save yours!" Leandra replied, her own voice raised in defense of her husband. "Don't forget, you could have just as easily been taken as the Surana girl. He was protecting you from scrutiny, from suspicion. And your abilities manifested not a month later. We would have lost you forever."

"So instead Triona grew up alone, without her family." 

"Don't judge what lengths a parent will go to to protect their child. You three were everything to us, to him. Her parents knew, and agreed that she could have a better life in the Circle than they could give her on the run. They chose, too."

"Yes, everyone chose for her. I'm amazed she doesn't curse our name before she closes her eyes every night." Hawke shot out of her chair, putting her hand out for the letter, which Leandra reluctantly handed over. "I'm going to drink away some of my disgust. There's not enough alcohol in the world to remove it all."

"Marian, I-"

"Save it, Mother." She stalked out of the house, slamming the door with particular force. The paintings on the wall rattled in response. 

The older Hawke put her head in her hands, letting the tears fall once she was alone. "Malcolm, what did we do?"

\--------

"- the fucking Circle, Varric! A kid!"

"You were a kid, too, Hawke." He knew better than to argue when his hero was rampaging, but he had the overwhelming need to point out the obvious to her. He was rewarded with the smell of singed fabric as she scorched his second favorite shirt. "What the hell?"

"I could have handled myself, or run away. I would have been okay."

The shirt was already ruined, so he went for broke. "She came out alright. Shit, she has legends written about her, stories that outsell me three to one."

"Stop writing the Hightown series and make up your own adventure," she said absently as she downed her third, or maybe it was fourth, tankard.

He stopped with his mug halfway to his mouth, inspiration striking like lightning. "Or, I could write yours."

His human snorted. "Be my guest. 'The great Marian Hawke, who has no idea what in the Void she's doing, and hasn't died despite her best attempts.' Sounds riveting."

"With my flair? It'll be a bestseller."

"Wanna bet?" She was easy to distract when she was deep in her cups, and he thanked Andraste that he wasn't going to lose more clothing to her temper...at least not immediately. "Five says you'll get rejected before the first draft is finished."

"Ten says it’ll outsell ‘Hard in Hightown’."

"You're on, dwarf." She slumped back in her chair, the alcohol finishing off her temper. "And don’t think I didn't notice you changing the subject. I'll burn your hair off when I can see just one of you again." Most of her temper.

True to form, she nodded off quickly, head lolling to the side, mouth slightly open. Most of her rages ended the same way, because Hawke was too damn stubborn to realize she wasn’t to blame for every bad thing that happened to people she knew. So, she would find him, drink until the pain was muted enough that the guilt was kept at bay, and passed out in his rooms in the Hanged Man. It became so routine that he kept an extra coverlet for her in anticipation.

Varric threw the blanket over her, resisting the urge to brush back the hair that had fallen over her face. He was a sentimental fool who hated to watch Hawke fight demons that had nothing to do with the Fade. How his life had become so intertwined with hers would remain a mystery. She had been a mark, a way to get through the Deep Roads, not a woman who meant more to him than family. A lot more, if he was being honest.

He watched her sleep for a moment more, just taking in the young woman who had done so much in such a short time. She was remarkable, and had no idea. Then he grabbed his parchment, quill, and ink, and began to write.

_All heroes' tales are at least partially fiction. But sometimes the truth is stranger than any fantasy that can be imagined. The Fifth Blight came to Lothering, and a family started a journey that would lead one of them to become the Champion of Kirkwall._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup, I'm on a Rilke kick lately. . .and again, because I'm A) a poetry geek and B) a music junkie, I have to share this bit I came across, the poem this title came from, [To Be Said When Going To Sleep](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=brCPm4kCTck), (in the original German, squee!) set to music.


	3. It will do you no harm to find yourself ridiculous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke and Varric play dress up.

“I hate you.”

“I can live with that.”

“Can you? Over the years I’ve come up with some highly creative ways to end your existence that I think even you would appreciate as an author.”

“I doubt it. It’s hard to fully take in something if you’re screaming in agony at the same time. And I assume that nothing you came up with would end with me dying in a comfortable bed surrounding by dwarven serving girls and ample amounts of ale.”

“One of them did, but you were also all on fire at the time. And there was poison. And an unedited copy of Philliam, A Bard!’s adaptation of Swords & Shields.”

“You are truly diabolical.”

“Says the dwarf who has me shoved into this outfit.” She glanced down at herself, and the tightly fitted bodice in forest green, sleeves in a complimenting sheer fabric cinched tightly at the wrists, and a froth of layered skirts that held just a hint of shine. She felt like a garishly decorated tree. “Who wears these?”

“What, dresses? Quite a few people, so I hear. I think you can survive it for a few hours.”

She fidgeted. Everything pinched, poked, draped, and hung. It was unbearable, honestly. “I didn’t even want to go to this ridiculous dinner. Why can’t I wear something I already own?”

“Everything you already own is covered in blood, scorch marks, ichor, or ale. And those are the ones that aren’t torn.”

“You went through my clothes?”

“I had Orana do it. She was traumatized afterward. I had to give her a healing draught to calm her nerves.”

Hawke narrowed her eyes at him. “It wasn’t that bad.” She paused. “It couldn’t be.” The second part sounded less sure.

“There were tears.”

“Maker.” She tugged at the bodice again. “Why is this so tight?”

“You think anything that’s not a blanket with armholes is too tight. Normal people wear clothes that have some shape to them.”

“I’m drowning in my own decolletage. And how do you know so much about women’s fashion, anyway?”

“I’m an author, and a well-rounded individual.” He leaned back against the fireplace, relishing her discomfort. “I’ve learned that women tend to appreciate when you can have a conversation about clothing.”

“Not this one,” she grumbled, and moved stiffly to sit down. The tight-fitting corseted top dug into her ribs as she sat, and she hissed in annoyance, and glared down at her enhanced cleavage with a look bordering on disgust. “They’re like a shelf under my chin. How do women get things done wearing shit like this?” 

“Stop being an infant, Marian. You’re the Champion of Kirkwall, who saved us all from the dread Qunari threat. You had a sword run through you. You can handle formalwear for an evening.” Her grousing was amusing, but they had a party to be fashionably late for, and it was his responsibility to get her there. Being Hawke’s handler was becoming a full-time job. He was considering outsourcing for some of the work. Like listening to the complaints.

She huffed, blowing a loose strand of hair out of her face. “Fine. Fine, Varric, but this is the last one. I’m not going to start making these a regular habit, I don’t care what kind of connections you’re trying to make, or what backroom deal hinges on your appearance. You have another party, drag Isabela. She’d love to get dressed up and drip off of your arm, charming people out of their money and their pants.”

“That’s precisely why I’m not taking her. I need a distraction, not a walking seduction. So wear the dress, smile like you’re enjoying yourself and not like you have a toothache.” He went to stand in front of the chair where she struggled to stand back up. “And maybe...don’t sit down.”

“What am I getting out of this, exactly?” Reluctantly, she made her way to the door, where Orana waited with a pair of ridiculously fancy slippers. She shook her head, walking past to get to her boots. She may be stuck in some frothy green confection, but she was damn well not going to suffer blisters as well as indignity. Orana sighed, looking longingly at the shoes, but eventually put them down and helped her on with her regular footwear.

“Besides hours of accolades and simpering nobles? Hopefully we can find out what the story is about those missing apostates without attracting too much attention. A party is a great cover for drunken wandering and accidental stumbling into clandestine meetings.”

Hawke cocked her head to the side slightly. “I forget sometimes that on top of being an author and a royal pain in my ass-”

“And dashingly handsome.”

“Uh huh. On top of all those, you’re a hell of a spy.”

“Information gatherer might be more appropriate. Spy implies a lot more blood than I’m strictly in favor of. I don’t mind getting my hands dirty when I need to, but I like to listen first, shoot second. Or not at all, given the choice.” They headed out the door, following the path up the street to the estate in Hightown where the curdled cream of Kirkwall society were rubbing elbows with one another. 

Hawke’s normally long stride was hindered by the skirts that swirled around her ankles, and she stumbled with a curse. Varric caught her before she landed on her ass. “You could have just taken Bianca, you know. She would have been less trouble, and just as much of a distraction.”

He smiled. “Crossbows are notoriously poor party guests, and they always seem menacing no matter how nicely they clean up. She would be quieter, though,” Varric finished, and stepped smoothly out of the way as she tried to push him aside. “Not very ladylike, Serrah Hawke.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Do you really want to push me any further, Tethras?” There was a whiff of burning wood and he stepped away.

“I’d be more concerned if you didn’t want to know what was going on as badly as I did,” he said, but he still looked askance at her hands, watching for a sudden flame that would spell the end of yet another coat.

There was a pause, and then a sigh before a small plume of smoke rose around them, swirling up into the night and disappearing. “Will there be tiny cakes?”

“And wine. Lots and lots of wine.”

“You could have led with the food. Though I don’t know how I can eat anything in this.”

“I’ve seen you when you get near sweets. You’ll find a way.”

She grinned wickedly. “Can I show people my scar?”

“If you can get out of that outfit on your own in the middle of a party, be my guest.”

“That sounds like a challenge.” She rested her hand on his shoulder, and he looked up to meet her eyes that glittered with mischief. “Maybe this night won’t be a total loss.”

“Maker, you’re going to make me regret this.” They had made the estate, and entered the doorway, where her name and newly granted title were announced. Every eye in the ballroom turned to them, and her smile widened into something approaching wicked.

“For the rest of our lives, my trusty dwarf.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little nothing bit of fluff, but I enjoy the dynamic duo's banter.


	4. We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke recounts a particularly disturbing dream she had. Varric ponders the likelihood of her truthfulness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is piece, with the exception of the last section, because the blame is entirely mine for that, is dedicated to the wonderful group of people who make up our little artist's colony on Gchat. Honestly, the conversations that come out of there are brilliant, and so this had to happen. 
> 
> I've found a wonderful new place in this world, and it's with these brilliant friends of mine. *grin*

The Rest was quiet; it was never like that at the Hanged Man, even in the darkest parts of the night there was a certain bustle and noise, usually the sound of someone losing their dinner in some dimly lit corner.  One thing about the Inquisition was that had an immensely cleaner tavern.  It made Hawke almost homesick for Lowtown and the stench of stale ale and other...things. 

Almost.  

She grabbed the two drinks from the bar where the rather taciturn dwarf stared at her with something between suspicion and outright hostility.  She wondered absently if bartenders convened at some centralized spot and informed one another about troublesome customers.  It was likely she was on several lists.

Sliding one drink across the table, she stared down into the bottom of her own glass.  It had become habit since she had found more than one multi-legged creature floating in hers back in Kirkwall.  Unsurprisingly, this ale was clear save for the dregs in the bottom.

“You’re still checking  for spiders?  It’s been years, Hawke.”

“Have it happen to you once, just once, and see if you can keep from checking before putting a mug to your mouth.”  The mere memory had her hesitating before taking a sip.  Her desire for alcohol overcame trepidation, however, and soon she was enjoying the beverage for all it was worth.

“So I had another dream last night.”

He leaned back, lightly slamming his head against the wood of the chair’s headrest. “Not this. Once again, Hawke, your dreams are neither prophetic nor profound. And yet you insist on sharing them.”

“And you keep listening, giving me the audience that if I didn’t have, I wouldn’t regale.”

He cracked open one eye.  “You have a point.  I feel that you take advantage of the fact that I can’t resist a story, good or bad.”

She opened her eyes widely, failing at being guileless.  “ _ Me? _ Would I even consider doing that?”

“You wouldn’t consider doing otherwise, you’re not fooling anyone.”

“No, I suppose not.  So, can I continue?”

“It’s not the one about Sebastian again, is it?”

“No.”

“Because you’ve told me that one more times than I want to remember.”

“It’s not!  This is entirely new, I promise.”

“Would saying no stop you?”

“No.”

\-----------

I’m in the Fade.  Of course I’m in the Fade, because, well, I’m dreaming, and that’s what happens when you dream.  But it’s not like the Fade we’ve seen before, yes, even you, dreamless one. Where I was standing, the Fade was in reality, and reality was  _ in the Fade. _ I don’t even know what it means, I can’t explain it, but it was like someone took a bucket of magic and poured it over the ground.    

The things I saw...they shouldn’t have existed.  Rocks made of water, water solid as a stone, like ice, but I could feel the heat off of it, but it was the  _ sky _ that was the worst...the stars were falling, dropping down around us like balls of fire that would roll and bounce and leave scorch marks behind them.  I’m not too proud to admit that I was scared.

And there she was, just standing in the middle of it.  She was staring at the sky with this ridiculous look of bliss.  Like Merrill when she spots a puppy or a pretty poisonous mushroom. You know that look.  She didn’t even notice the Terror that was running up to her until it started shrieking.  And you know what she did? She  _ smiled at it.    _ It opened its disgusting gaping mouth and if I hadn’t shoved a fireball down its throat she would have been demon food.  And I don’t think she would have cared, honestly.  She was completely oblivious.  Just that eerie stillness as she took in what definitely looked like the end of the world.

“Hi Hawke,” she finally said, as though she’d just realized I was there.  “Don’t you think he’s done a beautiful job?”

\--------------

“Oh. Did I say this was Lavellan? Because it was Lavellan.”  She grabbed at her tankard and took a deep draught. Hawke caught Varric staring at her with a doubtful expression.  “You don’t think I dreamt this.  You think I made it up?  I’ve  _ told _ you, these kind of dreams, it’s a mage thing.  You wouldn’t understand.”

“What exactly would be outside of my grasp? The wild exaggeration or the flat out lying?”

“Varric, I'm offended that you could think such things of me.”

“I’m offended that you believe I've thought otherwise of you.”

“Sometimes I'm completely lost as to why we're friends.”

“Because I can see through your shit better than anyone. And I make you look good.”

“You make me look tall, anyway. Now, can I continue?”

“Please do.”

\-------

She’s just  _ standing there,  _ like she's been made Tranquil or been trepanned, but whatever it is, it's not the elf we know. She has that unnatural grin on her face, leaning comfortably on a big outcropping of fucking red lyrium, because that’s not scary beyond all imagining.

“Isn't it lovely?” she says to me, like there's a bouquet of flowers in front of her instead of fire raining down from the sky.

“Lovely? No. Apocalyptic, yes. Lavellan, don't you think any of this is a problem?”

And she turned those freakish, vapid eyes on me.  It made my skin crawl.  And I’ve been coated in dragon snot and been on the underside of giant bugs when they’ve exploded.  “Why would it be a problem? He brought me the stars.” She gestured with one hand to the flaming balls of death.  “And as for the rest…he said he needed it.  And he wouldn’t take it unless it was important. He loves me, you know.”  

“Take what? What in the Maker’s ugly ass are you-ah!”  And I saw it.  Her arm was missing. Her fucking  _ arm _ . Who gives someone an  _ arm _ ?  Who  _ takes _ an arm?”

\-------------------

“Okay, you’re absolutely making this shit up.  So, what, she just gave someone her arm? The one with the anchor on it?” He was leaning over the table, fingers intertwined in front of him, bent slightly forward as though he was trying to gauge how truthful she was being.  “Why would you even dream this?”

“How in the Void should i know?”

He looked across the table at her as though she were a particularly troubling specimen of monster.  “What did you drink?  Was it some of that ‘fine Rivaini rum’ that the Admiral of Iniquity brought with her?  What exactly goes on in that mind of yours when you’re not blowing things up?”

“Intricate planning of how to blow things up quickly and more efficiently,” she said simply.  “But then it got  _ really _ bizarre.”

“There’s more?”

“Well, yes.  I wouldn’t start a story that just ends there. It’s disturbing, but hardly tale worthy.”

\--------------

“I asked him if he needed more from me, because I’d give him anything he asked, but he said no.  That he knew what he had to do. He told me to stand here and I could see everything he planned, all of his work and sacrifice come true.  And he was sorry he had to do it, I could tell.” She wasn’t blinking, maybe that was the eeriest part.  Well, that and the missing arm and the sing-song voice.  I mentioned the voice, right? It was like she was talking in time with sound of the damn red rocks.  And when she wasn’t talking...she was humming.

“Who did this to you, Lavellan?”

The smile on her face...I’ve seen rabid animals with less disturbing expressions. “He told me,’Vhen’an, I have to do this, for the good of all of my people. Hopefully you’ll understand, if you survive. You’ll see it was for the best.’ And how couldn’t it be?  He’s the wisest one of us all. And so if he needed something as simple as my arm, how could I say no? He’s  _ Solas _ .”  

\------------

“Nope. Just...no.  You have to be making this up.  You’re telling me  _ Chuckles _ is playing the role of the evil mastermind in your twisted brain?  And he’s using cliched monologuing?  Even he has more taste than that.”

“Hey, my dreams don’t have to make sense.  As a mage I have a particular connection to-”

“-the Fade, so just because it doesn’t make sense to you, I ‘insert unnecessarily complicated mystical nugshit explanation here.’ And because you’re a dwarf.”  Varric tapped his fingers on the table.  “I’ve heard this all before.  Every time you try to tell me something about one of your fucked up dreams, it’s prefaced by ‘I have a special connection you can’t understand so anything that makes no sense you can chalk up to that.’”

“I’ve told you time and again that bald bastard is creepy and dangerous.  I don’t think it’s so far-fetched.”

He seemed to ponder the idea, and nodded a little, but ultimately frowned and shook his head.  “Well, maybe it could make for a decent story. ‘Mild elven mage turns out to be world-destroying mastermind.’  I could sell that.  But really, who’d believe it? Have you taken a look at him? Hardly the villainous type.  Enigmatic sage, sure.  Romantic antagonist?  Maybe if you have a fondness for ill-fitting clothing and broody-”

“Careful, that’s Fenris, remember?”

“You’re right.   _ Moody _ elves.  But I can’t see Grace falling for him anymore than she would for one of the Mabari statues in the main hall.”

“Not with the way she moons over Curly, I’ll give you that.  But, again, dream.  You know, not real?  Like the amount of cleavage on the latest cover of Swords and Shields: steadfastly impossible, but somehow fascinating to the observer.”

“Why Hawke, I never knew-”

“Not so much, Author.  I just can’t help but wonder how that chainmail top doesn’t chafe to the point of driving her insane. It’s just not practical.  And the  _ pinching.”   _ She shuddered visibly.  

Hawke could tell he was trying not to roll his eyes. “Back to this dream of yours. Is there more to the story?”

She shook her head.  “No, that’s when I woke up.  That was enough, let me tell you.”

“That’s it?  A villain reveal?”

“I didn’t say it was a  _ good _ dream.  Just bizarre.” She finished her own drink and slid the glass next to his, the metal clinking slightly as they touched.  “I tell the story.  It’s up to you to tell me what it means.”

He put his chin in his hands and stared over at her for a moment, pondering.  He was silent for so long that Hawke got slightly worried. “It means,” he said finally, sherry eyes meeting green, “that you need another drink.”

“You nug-rustling bastard,” she said as he smiled, hopping down off of his stool and moving deftly aside as she tried to grab him.

“Well? Another, Hawke?”

She narrowed her eyes at him for a moment, but with a wink and a smile she said, “Sure, why in the blazes not. Especially since you’re buying.  And who knows. Maybe with enough ale in me, I’ll have another one of those dreams about Sebastian and can tell you  _ all _ about it.”

“Right.  Water.”  But there was no heat in his tone.  He filed away the story of her dream for another time. It was odd, but there was something among all of the disjointed moments that could become a tale, if he was just able to unravel the thread enough to let it regrow and take on a life of its own.  It was often just a word or a phrase, sometimes just an utterance in passing that could spark an entire piece.  And that spark was hiding in-

“You’re writing in your head again, aren’t you?”  He realized he hadn’t moved from beside their table, and shook his thoughts clear.  Her gaze was gentle, affectionate, and something more that neither of them was ready to address.

“The tale’s there.  I just need to find it.”

“You will, Author.  If anyone can, it’ll be you.”

\-------

He stared across at the empty chair beside the fireplace, the one that she always sat in when she couldn’t sleep, which had been more often than not as time passed.  The comforter still lay folded over the armrest, as if in anticipation of her return.  Glancing down at the mug he held, still half-filled with ale, he swallowed hard around the lump in his throat, set his drink down, and pushed it aside.  It had lost its flavor at the same time the rift had closed in Adamant.

“Damn it, Marian.  How am I supposed to dream now?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you're wondering, yes. This ties directly into [Where Legend Remains](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3774367/chapters/8388889), and follows [Chapter 45](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3774367/chapters/13191484).


	5. That is known as the Children's Hour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part one of daily prompts provided by the enchanting [Dissatisfied Doodles](dissatisfied-doodles.tumblr.com). 
> 
> Day One: A moment from their childhood.

“Take the steps carefully, Marian.  Patience is-”

“A pain in the ass, Da.”  

He tried to look stern at her words, but he couldn’t help the grin that quirked up at the corners of his lips.  “You have a lot to learn, and it takes time.”

“Magic is magic, Da.”  She looked down at her palm and a little flame appeared.  She danced it across her fingers deftly.  “I don’t know why you worry so much.”

“Because demons wait for you to slip,” he said seriously.  “You need to know how to defend as much as attack, or while you’re striking a blow, you’ll be left open to possession.”

“I’m too contrary. You said so yourself.”

“That may be so, young lady, but there’s at least one spirit out there that will decide you make a good snack. Now, more slowly this time.”

It was difficult, no, impossible for her to take things slowly.  Magic flowed out of her like a river of fire.  It was never a trickle, at its lowest it was a stream lapping at the dam of her control.  It had always been that way, since the first time in manifested, mere weeks after Triona had been taken to the Circle.  Da had been ready, though. He knew that if she was to show any abilities, it would be soon after.  She had never seen him cast more than the simplest of spells, but she had a feeling that he was more powerful than he was willing to let on.  He was worried for her, and she knew it, but she couldn’t stop the flow insider of her anymore than she could maker her eyes brown or her hair blonde...she wondered absently if that was possible, but suspected if she tried it, her father would have a fit.  And someone was sure to notice that change.

It had been almost a year since she first set the kitchen table on fire, and that had been mostly on purpose.  Her breakfast had gotten cold since the twins were fighting, again, and once again she had to break up the bickering over “Bethany’s on my side of the room.” She just wanted hot food for  _ once _ on a morning before classes started, and she stared angrily at bowl in front of her.  The next thing she knew, smoke was curling up from the wood planks of the table and the porridge in her bowl was bubbling.  Her mother came running into the room and stifled a cry before pulling her daughter away and pouring water over the smouldering surface.

“ _ Malcolm,”  _ she called, and at that moment Hawke knew that her life had changed much like her friend’s had.

Which was why she was staring at a piece of wood in the fireplace and  _ not  _ setting it on fire.  “Light the kindling around the wood. Ignore the larger target, take out the smaller pieces first.  Use them to do the harder work, so you can use the least amount of power necessary for the job.”

“ _ Don’t be a great sword when you can be a dagger. _ ” It wasn’t the first time he had used the analogy.  It wouldn’t be the last.  With a sigh, she did as he asked, swirling the magic around the small bits of straw and paper that were almost begging to be lit aflame.  They caught, of course, and then the log followed after, cracking as the bits of moisture left in its dry grain met the heat of the fire.

“Good.  Now you see, if just the log had caught on fire, it would have been obvious that magic was used. But there are always embers that can be used to excuse a gradual burn.  When you’re out in the world, Marian, people won’t look at the good that can be done with your abilities. They’ll simply see the apostate who hasn’t yet been tethered to a Circle. And I don’t want that for you.”

“I know, Da.  I’ll try not to bring attention to myself. Sometimes it’s just so  _ hard. _ ”

************

She stared that the wreckage of Kirkwall, fire and smoke billowing from seemingly every corner.  More death, more destruction, and Maker’s  _ ass  _ the mostly healed wound in her side hurt. She breathed deep, running along the cobblestones after the latest abomination who was trying to chew the face off of a not-so-innocent Templar. 

“Da, I’m sorry.  I never really liked daggers.”  She swung her staff at the monster that used to be a man, pushing her will through the piece of wood and flame exploded out of the end, a rope that wrapped itself around the creature and squeezed it until it burst into flaming bits. 

“Watch it, Hawke!” came a voice from her left, and a bolt whizzed by, planting itself in the center of another demon.  “What in the Void would you do without me here?”

“Concentrate?”

“Or get eaten by a rage demon, but if you want to believe the former, be my guest.”  Bianca hummed her deadly song, Varric’s timbre giving an unconscious counterpoint to the tune of the weapon.

“My father would have liked you,” she said conversationally as the fire burned around them, causing sweat to trickle down the back of her neck.  A despair demon shrieked, and she swung her staff like a club, batting it into a pile of burning crates.  “Creepy little bastards.”

“Why’s that?”

“He was always telling me to focus, to pay attention, to take it slow.”  Two more former mages took shots to their throats from the crossbow.  “As you can tell, I wasn’t a great student.”

“You survived this long. Obviously something caught and held on.”

“Yes. Stubbornness and an unwillingness to get beaten by a- _ why are there so fucking many abominations? _ ”  She pulled from her core, that blue/white heat of the heart of a fire, the smell of burning timbers in her nose, and she released a wall of flame that left mere ashes where the mages had once stood.

“Come on. I have an idiot of a former friend to find, and maybe not kill before someone else does.”  She ran down the steps towards the Gallows, and let out a string of curses that made even Varric’s ears ring when the Pride demon cackled its menacing laugh.

“Are you sure I can’t just blow the rest of the damn city up?”

“And accrue those bills? Just fight the demon, Marian.” He reloaded Bianca.  “And have a little patience.”


	6. And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day two: A moment of triumph or success

“I won!”

“No, you didn’t.  Knock it off and get back down here.”

“Declare me victor and I’ll consider it.”

“That is not happening.”

Varric stepped through the door, and stopped, frozen at the sight in front of him.  “Do I even want to know what’s going on?”

“No,” said Isabela at the same time Hawke crowed “Yes!” with an emphatic trill to her voice.

“Or why you’re wearing that...what  _ is  _ that, anyway?”

“It’s a corset,” she said.

_ "Was _ a corset,” Isabela corrected. “Now it’s a bit of brocade and whale bone wrapped around your middle that will forever wonder what it did to deserve that fate.”

“How much alcohol was involved here?”

“Too much.” The pirate shook her head.  

“Not enough.”  Hawke tugged at the top of the too-small bodice that was doing a remarkably poor job of holding in her assets.  Varric couldn’t look away; it was like an overturned wagon in the street. It was horrifying, but there was something that captured one’s attention.

“I’m fairly certain you’re breaking both decency laws and various natural ones at the moment,” he mused.  “And how can you breathe?”

“I breathe...just...fine...thank you.” The piece was definitely constricting her airways, because her words came out far breathier than normal. “But ‘Bela said I couldn’t, and I did, so I’ve won!”

“You haven’t  _ won _ anything, because I didn’t  _ bet _ anything.  I just said there was no way you could fit into one of my tops.  You had to pick the green one, too,” she said with a bit of a sigh.  “It’s my favorite...or at least it was.”

“I thought you hated those kind of clothes,” the dwarf said, trying and failing to avert his eyes. “And what part of doing this involved standing on a table?”

“I only hate these when I have to wear them, and Isabela tried to take the corset away before I was finished tying it!  She just didn’t want me to prove I could.  Also, you keep the good brandy hidden on the top of the bookcase,” she added, grabbing the bottle off the shelf and pulling the cork out.  “Want some?” She moved to hand over the liquid after taking a deep drink.

“Don’t. Bend. Over.”  There was a gravity to Varric’s voice that stopped her in her tracks.  “I may not be a gentleman, but damn it, even I have my limits.”  He looked over at Isabela, who looked far too innocent to actually be blameless. “And you’re enjoying this far more than you’re letting on.”

A smirk was his answer. “Of course I am.  A girl can dream. And if those dreams have a little extra imagery, more’s the better.”  She snatched the brandy from Hawke’s hand.  “Alright, Champion.  You’ve won.  Frankly, I don’t think there are any losers here.”

“My heart, possibly.”

“And maybe my ribcage.” Her smile was triumphant, however.  “But it was worth it.  I am victorious.  And I’m keeping the corset.”

“You’re going to have to; it’s probably adhered to your body at this point.”

“Likely, but that’s alright, I’ll get used to not breathing.”  She stepped to the edge of the table, but paused, a puzzled look on her face.

“Do I want to know?”

“I don’t think I can get down; I can’t see my feet.”

This of course sent Isabela into gales of laughter, and even Varric had to keep from doubling over in merriment.  

“No, I think I’m stuck up here.”  This just made them laugh harder, so they didn’t hear the door when it opened.

“What’s so-oh sweet Maker!”  Carver closed his eyes, and turned back to the stairway.  _ "Why _ , Marian?”

Varric took pity on the young Templar. “There was alcohol, Isabela, and a bet.  What’s so hard to understand?”

“Did you win?”

“Victory is mine!”  She struck a triumphant pose, and he winced.

“That...I....no.”  His booted feet were loud on the stairs back down to the tavern proper, and he muttered to himself about poor decisions and questionable bloodlines.


	7. Storim Glas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day three: A moment of loss

She sat, staring out over the mountains in the distance.  Forward. Always moving forward, always just  _ moving. _ If she stopped, she knew she’d go crazy, because the memories she tried to outrun would catch up with her.  

_ You’re talking like they’ll outpace you.  You know they’re not gone, right? _

“Are you talking metaphysical to me again? You know I hate that shit.  And so do you...the real you, anyway.”

_ The me that’s not actually here exists because of the metaphysical, so I’ve decided I’m alright with it. _

“Good for you.”  The leaves had started turning as the seasons changed, painting the mostly verdant trees with tongues of flame that the fire inside of her recognized.  There was death in the colors, but the hint at the life to come beyond the reds and oranges, after the winter came to the land and blew the last hints of foliage to the ground and covered it with snow, when those same bits of death fed the land that would once again burst forth into spring.

_ You’re sounding awfully poetic, Marian.  Maybe it’s best you take some time away from me. _

“It’s not like I have a lot of choice about that.  I’m a bit of a wanted woman at the moment, in case you don’t remember.”

_ Of course I do. I’m the one who sent you the ‘Permanently Angry Seeker is Looking to Kill You” warning, remember?  You barely got out of Darktown in time. _

“I can’t say I miss hiding in the sewers.  I’m not exactly the outdoors type, but it’s a damn sight better than sleeping in other people’s filth.”

_ Sleeping in filth kept you alive, don’t forget. _

“Yes, yes I know, which is why I’m standing at the top of a mountain in the middle of...somewhere.  Where in the Void am I again? I was trying to get to that little Chantry we had talked about.”

_ I’m a fiction author, not a cartographer. I have no idea. _ _ But I’d get under cover before it’s too late. _

“Too late for what?”

_ To escape the ending Fate has in store for you. _

“There’s that metaphysical crap again.  Keep it to a minimum, would you?”

_ You’re the one arguing with yourself again.  Let me just point that out, in case you were wondering what side of the sanity line you fell on.  And I was talking about the weather.  Look up. _

The skies had darkened suddenly, no longer bright and sunny, giving off warmth and light.  The wind had picked up; there was a storm coming, one that she was helpless to stop.  The color of the sky was concerning, that odd verdigris shade that hinted untamed ferocity was in store for her, the clouds forming dark and forbidding edifices like something out of a nightmare.  She had to get to cover, to stay protected so that she could continue to her destination, whatever that ended up being. 

“Not that it really matters all that much where I go.  It’s not going to bring anything back that means something.”

_ You still have your life.  Your health.  Most of your money, though it’s not exactly easily accessible for you at the moment.  What are you missing? _

“ _You,_ Varric. Idiot.”

_ Again. Voice in your head. There’s only one person that you’re calling an idiot, and it’s not the dwarf. _

“Yes, yes.  Thank you for pointing that out.  You’re right, I don’t miss you at all.” The lie felt like ashes in her mouth, even if she was the only one who heard it.

_ Pitard. You. Hoisted. _

She would have continued standing in the open, arguing with...herself...but the dull roar of the oncoming tempest told her that her time to prepare for what lay in store was limited.

_ You’ll survive. You always find a way, Marian. _

She took one look back at the mountain, at the approaching storm, and then stepped into the whispering unknown of the woods, green swirling around her ankles as the first drops of rain began to fall.


	8. There is a voice inside of you that whispers all day long

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day Four: A moment that changed them

“I hate this fucking place.” She moved down the narrow streets of Lowtown, grumbling to herself at the atmosphere of desperation that seemed to permeate the very stone of the city.  “At least in Lothering I could breathe the air. Granted it was filled with fire and the stench of burning Darkspawn, but it still had less of an odor than  _ this. _ ”

“We’ll be well out of here soon, if this Bartrand fellow has any brains in his head. We’re what he’s been looking for.”  

“Humility and a winning personality have always been your strong suits, I know, Carver, but perhaps you should leave the talking to me? I want to get us jobs, not funerals.”  Her brother narrowed his eyes at her.  

“You really don’t think I can do anything right, do you?”  There was a sour tone to his voice, an old bitterness that rose to the surface whenever he felt slighted. Which was often.

She couldn’t resist prodding at him, however. It had become second nature.  “I think you’re good at many things, brother mine.  Communicating with other mortals is simply not one of them.  You come off sounding like a tit.”

“You’re an ass, Marian.  A true rotter of a human being.” He still walked alongside her, but his steps were heavier, as though he was unable to contain certain parts of having a tantrum, making his dissatisfaction loudly known.

“That is as may be, but I’m also fairly good at convincing others to play along.”’

“You’re manipulative.”

“I prefer charming and persuasive.”

“I prefer you not treating me like an imbecile, but we can’t always have what we want.” His tongue was getting a bit sharper, and she looked back at him, genuinely smiling. 

“Very good. We’ll make a sarcastic bastard out of you yet, Carver.”

******************

“I thought you said you were good at convincing people.”

“Good, not perfect.  And this Bartrand fellow has a stick up his ass.” The siblings stood in the square of Hightown, and for once Hawke didn’t know which way to turn, or at least how to fake that she did.  “He’s holding out for something, but I’ll be damned if I know what it-hey!”

She had been in Kirkwall long enough to know the methodology of a cutpurse, and this one had been worse than most.  He practically stabbed her cutting the thong off of her belt, and he stumbled as he ran, Carver and her following right behind.

There was a satisfying “thwack” as the thief cried out, tugging pathetically to get his shoulder loose from the bolt that was sunk into at least his tunic if not his flesh.  The lack of blood made her suspect that he was simply pinned by his clothes to the stones of Kirkwall.  

“You need another line of work.”  The voice was bourbon poured over shards of ice.  Not cubes, they were too smooth for the jagged edges that speared through the rise and fall of his meter.  There was a gravelly tone that kept it from being melodic, but it was stirring.  It said more than words to her.  She  _ recognized  _ it, the essence of it, like a bolt sliding home, something inherently familiar that made the world seem at last right.

And she didn’t see him.  She looked at the scattering crowd, at people running to and fro, barely bothering to glance at the knave stuck to the wall like a public notice on theft.  A clink of coin and her attention was drawn down, where he stood, a smirk on his face as he bounced the purse in his hand and once again addressed the young man struggling against his captivity.

“Run along home, and try something legitimate that won’t have you end up on the wrong side of an arrow.”  With a nod and a tearing sound, he finally broke free, and scampered away as fast as his feet could carry him.  The dwarf then turned his attention on the brother and sister.  He tossed the coin purse to her with a smile that was pure charm.

“You’ll be needing that if you want to join our little expedition into the Deep Roads.”  Eyes like sherry or warm honey glinted with mischief, and his face widened into a smile. “Varric Tethras, by the way.  Younger, wiser and handsomer member of House Tethras.”

“You’re related to that ass who won’t hire us on?”  Carver spoke before she had a chance to,  _ again _ , but she had started to learn to take his outbursts in stride.

“And with a cool head like yours, Junior, I can’t imagine why he’d hesitate.”   _ That _ was what drew her to him.  His sarcasm was as rich and warm as the timbre in his voice, an elegant weapon that was so lovely and sharp that it took a moment to realize how badly one was bleeding.

Carver simply huffed at the response.  Hawke on the other hand, couldn’t help herself.  “It’s a mystery why my brother isn’t the toast of Kirkwall, and in fact all of the Free Marches.  Verses should be written about his exploits, poems to his calm and sedate manner.

“Oh, I think we’re going to get along  _ just _ fine, Hawke,” Varric said in reply.  “You, me, Bianca, and the paragon of even-handedness that’s standing beside you.”

“Bianca?” she asked, casting about for another dwarf nearby. None either came forward or responded, and he gestured behind him.  

“She’s one of a kind.  Found her after she fell out of the back of a turnip truck on its way to Ostagar,” he said with a smile that told her it was absolute bullshit.

“I would have thought a woman that precious would have had to be rescued from the tallest tower in the deepest forest.”

“That’s reserved for swords and shields.  Crossbows have a rich history of being abandoned in the back of vehicles that goes back to-”

“Oh Maker, another one of you.”  Carver’s face twisted in barely concealed disgust.  “I’m going back to talk to Gamlen.  You two enjoy each others’ company, and maybe you’ll wear each other out enough to be tolerable.”  He didn’t wait for a response, simply turned on his heel and headed back to Lowtown and what he considered relative sanity.

She watched him leave, a part of her wanting to call him back and apologize for not being the sister he wanted, for being the sister who survived. But she had tried to do that since...then...and he had no interest in her words.  So she stayed silent, until she felt a hand on her arm.

“Let him cool off.  I know brothers, and he needs some time to himself.”  She once again met those eyes that blended humor and kindness.  “Meanwhile, why don’t we grab drink and talk about your future with our expedition?”

“Future?   _ Your _ brother made it very clear that he wasn’t interested in us.  There’s not much future in rejection.”

“Coin speaks, Hawke.” He started walking in the same direction  Carver had gone, towards Lowtown.  “I’ll explain how we’ll make it sing for my brother until he sees the wisdom of a partnership.”  He moved a few more steps, paused, and turned around.  “Well, are you coming, or are you just going to stand there in front of the Chantry like a statue?”

“Right.  Of course.  Lead on, trusty dwarf.”  

_ Well, my life is never going to be the same. _

_ And I can guarantee it won’t be boring. _


	9. Beyond this place of wrath and tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day Five: A Moment of Vulnerability

“What did you do? What did you  _ do? _ ” Her voice cracked with agony.

“I did what you couldn’t do,  _ Sister mine. _ I laid her to rest.  It was time.”  Carver stared at her, face hard, challenging his words.

“It wasn’t your choice to make! This was my home!  _ Our  _ home!”

“She was my mother!” He matched her volume with his own, voices echoing throughout the manor. Bodhan and Sandal had the good sense to keep out of sight in one of the adjoining rooms.

“You don’t act like it! You threw her away, threw all of-what did you do with her things, Carver?” She approached him, hands clenched tightly, smoke curling out from between her fingers.

“I donated them.  They were gathering dust in that room of hers, and she would have wanted-”

“Don’t you  _ dare  _ tell me what Mother would have wanted. She  _ wanted _ to find happiness.  She  _ wanted _ the two of us to get along, far past what either of us thought was possible.  She-”

“She  _ wanted _ her daughter to save her.  A fat lot of good wanting got her, Marian.” He could have punched her in the gut and it would have hurt less. Her eyes flashed fire, and he immediately knew he had gone too far, crossed a line he could never step back from..

“Get. Out.”

“I-” He paused. “No, you know what, I’m not sorry! Someone had to say it, and none of your sycophants will take a minute to bring you back to earth, to remind you that  _ you failed. _ ”

“Go, Carver.” She brought her right hand up, and fire glowed red hot in her palm, a small nuclear war in the making.

His eyes flashed blue, a lingering effect of the lyrium he now ingested as part of his new life.  “I’m not your baby brother anymore, Marian.”

“No.  You’re an asshole.  A cold, miserable  _ bastard _ .”  Her hand shot forward, and she gripped the front of his cuirass at the neckline. It hissed where her hand met it, going molten under her skin.  Her face was inches from his, and his eyes widened at the realization that she wouldn’t hold back against him, that she wasn’t intimidated, not even a little by his new station, the new abilities he had.  “You want to treat them like so much garbage, like worthless memories? Go ahead. But get out of my  _ fucking house _ !”  She screamed the last words at him, the rage of years building up so that he stumbled and almost fell when she pushed him away.

He regained his balance, looked down at the warped and misshapen collar of his armor and with a wordless cry shot out his smiting at her-

And didn’t see the head of her staff as it connected with his skull.  He crumpled to the ground as she reeled from the attack, feeling as though she had been doused in cold water and her magic was stopped dead.  She doubled over, sick at the sensation of having the connection snapped so quickly and completely. 

“Messere Hawke, are you alright?” Orana’s voice broke through the haze of nausea, and she felt a cool hand on her forehead, a glass of water pressed into her hands.  She tossed it back and coughed.  Not water.  Whisky, a burning trail down her throat that startled her back to herself.  As she refocused on the world around her, she saw her brother’s prone form, the wooden stick she used to channel her magic on occasion lying beside him.  She looked up at the woman who had assumed the housekeeping duties.

“Did you…?”

“Your brother’s a tit, Serrah. I hope you don’t mind my saying so. Coming in and taking your mother’s things like that.  And he knew we wouldn’t be home, either.” She looked at his unconscious form and gave a sniff. “It’s alright to be angry, but not like this.”

Bodhan emerged from the other room, Sandal peering around the corner.  “Would you like me to...remove him, Messere?”

Hawke nodded, still trying to catch her breath.  “Please.  Bring him...bring him back to his Templars. They can do as they wish. And he can try and explain the damage to his armor.” There was a brittleness to her voice.  “And they can  _ try  _ and take me if he tells the truth and they believe him.”

“He wouldn’t dare,” Orana replied.  “He has too much pride to admit that he’s related to an apostate...and that he’s hidden it for as many years as he has.”  

Hawke stood then, a little wobbly on her feet, the world still a little hazy at the edges, but she could feel the effects slowly wearing off, and with it came a sort of panic, a clawing sort of claustrophobia, a driving push to escape, to get away from what had happened.  “I need...I need to not be here right now,” she said, glancing up the stairs at the door that was swung wide open, the emptiness inside of it a testament to her loss, a mocking reminder of the latest hole in her heart.

“Of course.  If you need  _ anything _ , Messere, we’re here. And we’ll take care of...everything”  Orana put a hand on her mistress’ arm, and Hawke gave a wavering smile.

“Thank you, all of you.”  They were good to her, too good, but she still couldn’t stay, couldn’t face what had happened.  That night, she just didn’t have the strength.  She put her coat on, letting the cold air buffet her skin when she opened the door.

“Tell Master Tethras we said hello,” Bodhan said from his position bending over her brother’s body as he determined the best way to remove a fully grown man from the manor.

“I will,” she replied, and closed the door behind her, letting herself be swallowed by the darkness as she made her way to the Hanged Man and the dwarf she trusted above all others.


	10. How dull it is to pause, to make an end,  To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 6: A moment they made a mistake.

You want me to tell you about  _ one _ mistake?  Like I have so few to choose from that I can go “Yes, I shall pluck this moment out of my otherwise pristine repertoire and tell you all about it, so that we may laugh merrily at my little dust up.”

Well  _ fuck you. _

I’ve made so many mistakes that I really don’t know where to start.  

How about when I decided that we should all run from Lothering on foot, carrying only the clothes on our backs and what very little money we had?  That ended well, didn’t it? I lost a sister when she was torn apart by a monster in front of me...I can still feel her blood, hot and thick as it landed on me.   I hope she never knew what happened, that it was over so quickly her body couldn’t process the pain.  I  _ have _ to hope for that, because anything else will send me gibbering into the abyss.  Bethany in pieces on the ground in front of me, Mother screaming out her loss, Carver raging at my ineptitude.

Like I needed him to tell me how badly I screwed everything up.  I was wearing my failure on my skin, covered in it, in her.  I couldn’t even cry because I still had to kill the ogre that ripped apart my sibling.  And then there was Aveline and Wesley and fucking  _ Flemeth _ , and when did I have time to mourn after that?  There was too much happening and too many people needed me and since it was my fault, I had to make sure they were all taken care of. Mourning was a luxury I couldn’t afford.

All these years later, I still don’t think I’ve earned the right.

Then of course there’s Kirkwall.  I’m sure you’ve heard about that quaint little town on the edge of total annihilation.  Yeah. That happened while I was there.  Qunari invasion, batshit crazy Templar Knight-Commander, fire, brimstone, sword through the gut.

Oh, and my friend blew up the Chantry.

So that ended well for everyone.

Speaking of Blondie….

Maybe he’s my worst mist-no, no that comes later.

I had to take him out of there; he was crazier than I was by that point, talking about Vengeance like they were conjoined twins instead of a mage with a mystical parasite in his head directing him to kill.  Then again, maybe he had always been that insane and just lacked the motivation until the spirit nudged him in into action.

We sat in that clearing, the soot and blood of the fight still fresh on our clothes, and I looked over at him, hoping to see some semblance of the man I had cared about, had loved like family.

He laughed. He actually laughed at the destruction of the Chantry. 'It'll be easier next time, now that Justice has shown me how.' It wasn't him anymore, not really. Vengeance had eaten him alive, and it was a demon wearing my friend's face.

I screamed at him, wanted Anders back, to fight against the possession that had taken hold so completely that I knew my words were in vain and I had lost another person I cared about because I hadn’t acted soon enough. That creature  _ showed  _ me what he was planning.  There was destruction and bodies and there was more blood on my hands as I held your corpse in my arms and  _ smiled _ at the death around me, grinned as I saw all of you on the ground at my feet and I absorbed the power in your essence.  I was  _ happy. _

The vision faded away, finally, and I was screaming, trying to wipe your blood off my hands. And he just smiled at me again, stood over me, put his hand out. 'You see? It will be glorious!' I put one hand in his, and he didn't see the blade in the other. You'd taught me well, so had Isabela. I slid the dagger in between his ribs. I saw the surprise, and the anger - rage, really - as Vengeance saw his plan unravel and the life left his body. 

In that last second, though, it was Anders again. He looked...relieved, before his eyes glazed over. I...burned the body, buried the dagger, said a prayer...I'm not sure why, it just seemed right.  And then I walked away.  There was nothing there anymore except more failure, more loss.

But no.  Of all the mistakes, you’re the biggest one. 

You bastard.

I stood there. Stood on the other side of that spider the size of half of Lothering.  And I told you to go.  To leave me. That I would be behind you, right behind you.

I lied to you.  

Something I promised myself I wouldn’t do.  I could lie to everyone else in the world, tell whoppers that would have the Maker blushing and Andraste fainting at His side, and you would still know the truth, know everything about me the way no one else ever could.

Because you’re the only person I ever truly trusted, who I knew wouldn’t turn away even if he saw the very worst in me.

My best friend.

The love of my miserable, death-and-destruction filled life.

And I let that falsehood slip from my tongue, prayed like I never prayed for anything else that you would believe me, go ahead, be safe, keep living.

My prayer was answered.

You believed the lie.  You left me behind.  You kept on living.

My biggest mistake...my greatest failure...is in hoping you would stay.


	11. Life passes through us like the blade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 7: A moment of overcoming an obstacle.

_ You’re not dead. _

_ Wait?  Am I dead? _

_ I just said, you’re not.  You never were very good at listening. _

_ So...I’m alive. _

_...Yes.  That would be the “not dead” part of you being  _ not dead.

_ You don’t have to be such an ass about it. _

_ Obviously I do, because you seem to be rather slow at grasping the concept. _

_ Well, if I’m not dead, what am I?  Besides alive, smartass. _

_ Somewhere hovering on the edge of consciousness. How do you feel? _

_ I don’t really feel like-what in Andraste’s caramelized ass is that? _

_ That’s the glory of living, Hawke. _

_ It feels like I had a giant sword shoved through my mid-I had a giant sword shoved through my middle, didn’t I? _

_ That’s the memory coming back to you. Go slowly, it’s usually not- _

_ I was fighting the Arishok...he ran me through with his non-euphemistic blade, and...wait. _

_ Oh shit. _

_ I still won, didn’t I? _

_ Is that what you’re getting out of this? _

_ But I did, didn’t I? _

_ You’re alive...that’s the important- _

_ I won!  With a hole in my gut, blood inevitably pouring out of me-you should write a story about this-I still killed that horned asshole. _

_ No one would believe it. _

_ Of course they would!  Just put the name Varric Tethras on it, and they’ll believe any nugshit you throw at them. _

_ I’m not writing about how you almost died. _

_ Why not? I didn’t die, did I? I mean, I think I feel like I was backed over by a druffalo with dysentery taking dancing lessons with a bogfisher, but I’m alive for all of that. _

_ And that’s supposed to make me feel better?  You haven’t even faced the not-internal me, yet.  You think I’m mad...he’s  _ pissed.

_ How pissed? _

_ I’d consider death as a viable alternative to waking up and facing him. _

_ Oh. _

_ Yeah, oh.  You need to stop pulling this shit, Hawke.  I’m not as young as I once was, and neither are you. _

_ Hey, don’t lump me in that category.  I’m still spry. _

_ Says the range fighter with the sword in her gullet. _

_ Gullet’s a bit higher than this, isn’t it? _

_ Are you arguing language with your inner voice? _

_ When my inner voice is an insufferable dwarven author?  Of course. _

_ I don’t know why I stick around. _

_ Because you’re a  _ part _ of me? _

_ And apparently a masochist.  Being your friend brings that out in people. _

_ Ha. You loooove me. _

_ Well, if I didn’t, the level of self-loathing you would be dealing with would be far higher than it already is. _

_ Fine, loving inner-voice.  What do I do now? Am I stuck in this state forever, or what? _

_ Well, that’s up to you. Do you want to wake up? _

_ I don’t know, is the real you there? _

_ Where else would I be? _

_ Is he going to forgive me for this? _

_ Eventually. Maybe. After he stops thanking the Maker you’re alive and cursing your stupidity in the same breath.  Actually, you should wake up, it’s getting pretty desperate-sounding. _

_ How long have I been out? _

_ Time really doesn’t have- _

_ Cut out the metaphysical shit. How long? _

_ Three days. _

_ Three days?  And he hasn’t smothered me with a pillow yet?  Well then, I’m home free.  Now, to just wake up. _

_ Anytime now, Hawke. _

_ How do I do this? _

_ You have to want it. _

_ Well of  _ course _ I want it. Why wouldn’t I? _

_ Because it’s easier to lie here than it is to face reality?  The fact that you scared him to death? You scared them all to the point that they’ve been hovering by your bedside for days, afraid to hope, afraid  _ not _ to hope in case in that moment you slip away and their lack of belief in you is what allowed you to escape?  You have people counting on you, Marian.  A lot of them.  That’s a shit ton of responsibility to put on your shoulders. And it’s quiet on this side of living, simple. It’d be nothing to slip away.  You really wouldn’t know the difference, because you’d never see them mourn, hear their sorrow.  There’s no responsibility here at all.   _

_ That seems kind of...empty. _

_ It’s also a lot less complicated.  Love is a sticky thing, and it’s filled with pain and uncertainty.  You know going back there means you have to face it in some capacity.  Even if you never admit it to hi-to any of them.  It’s there, and you’ll feel it, forever. _

_ Who’s side are you on? _

_ Yours.  It’s always yours. I’m just giving you all of the options.  I’m giving you the road most traveled, and letting you decide for yourself which way to go. The other way means you keep fighting, and you may never win.  This way means you get to rest. _

_ But I never get to see hi-them, again. _

_ That’s true. _

_ What kind of a choice is that? _

She could almost hear the smile in his voice.   _ It’s really not one.  I may be presenting you with alternatives, but I was never uncertain which way you would go. _

_ So this whole back and forth was pointless? _

_ Maybe.  Or maybe it helped you reach a certain realization. _

_ That my inner Varric is more of an ass than the real one? _

_ Yes, that’s exactly what I was going for.   _ There was a silence that in reality would have been a sigh.   _ Wake up, Hawke.  You win. _

Her eyes were heavy, and it took her a few moments to will them open.  She came to with his hand in hers, head slumped over the mattress in sleep.

“Varric,” she croaked.  He didn’t stir. “Varric.” Her voice was rough with disuse, throat parched.  She could barely move, but she squeezed his hand just a bit.  Unconsciously he squeezed back, then woke with a start.

A range of emotions crossed his face, primarily relief, but there was anger there, and something else, something raw that had her heart beating faster in something not unlike fear, though that wasn’t the right emotion.  “About fucking time,” he said at last, and she couldn’t help but smile, albeit weakly at his response.

“Better late than-”

“Don’t.” His voice was sharp. “Don’t fucking joke about it, Marian.” He sounded furious, but his fingers were still wrapped around hers, holding on tightly as though tethering her to reality.

“I missed you, too.”


	12. Thus Conscience does make Cowards of us all

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 8: A moment with something/someone they cherish.

She watched him over the rim of her glass.

What was it about his hands? They were writer’s hands, nails trimmed, tips stained with ink.  They were also a rogue’s hands, nicked with tiny scars, used to performing nimble work in picking locks and reaching where no sane person would go.  

He used those hands to weave fiction and fact alike, to spin tales as long as the day and short as a breath.  From his mind to his fingers flowed “Hard in Hightown,” “Tale of the Champion,” and countless others.  Even his letters were poetry.  Not necessarily good poetry, but verses that caught her attention nonetheless.

_ Don’t die, Marian. _

And sometimes the stanzas had no hidden meaning.  They were just simple truths or invocations, conveying nothing but his imperative.

He used those hands to steer the tide of Fate.  He had put bolts through Corypheus, brought him low, planned to do the same at the next opportunity, self-preservation be damned. He opened doors that would otherwise be impassable, revealed secrets that were no longer hidden because he was there.  He kept her safe when the world turned to shit and rained down fire and death and destruction on her. Those same hands had held her, stroked her back and brushed her hair out of the path of unstoppable tears as she cried out her pain at loss after loss, an endless tide of grief.

She had watched those hands guard her passage out of the Fade, let her make her escape as a demon the size of the Winter Palace tried to block her passage to freedom.  A few well placed shots in what she sincerely hoped was a particularly sensitive area put to rest the idea that she would be left behind, the last noble sacrifice in Adamant.  Then she was running, his arm around her waist, hers around his shoulders, and they had burst through as Lavellan was working on sealing the green hole shut.

And then they were on their way back to Skyhold, down a Warden, but relatively unscathed for all of the chaos and carnage.  He had been livid at her willingness to sacrifice herself, to give herself over to some “creature that looked like the Maker’s dropped scrotum,” and she had screamed back at him about having to do something stupid to keep everyone safe.  Eventually the fire had burned itself out and they were back to having drinks at the Herald’s Rest, cozy in a corner of the inn where few people could approach them without their being prepared with a quip or a story or a well-placed dagger.

She watched him, taking a sip of the liquid in her hand as he scribbled a thought down on his paper, the parchment ever present, the quill replaced with a charcoaled stick that he had fashioned for his own purposes.  Her tankard was filled with something rich and red and heady that night, something that was brought up from the cellars to toast the life of Warden Stroud and celebrate a victory, however fleeting. It was important to cheer the wins as well as mourn the losses.

She came to a sudden if inevitable decision.  Maybe the added fortification of alcohol guided her thoughts, though she had been much more inebriated and had never stepped as close to the abyss as she planned to that evening.  Maybe it was the inspiration of Stroud and his selfless sacrifice. If that mustached stick in the mud could face down a demon, she could say three simple words.  He had shown her the importance of fighting for something that meant everything. 

“ l-” She caught herself.  She had caught herself a thousand times before that night, each moment just a hair’s breadth away from admitting something that couldn’t be taken back, that would change the world irrevocably.  And she couldn’t handle that.  For someone who had swayed the world as often as she had, she hated change.  Hated the idea that life could become more uncomfortable with unknowns and differences that could go any of a hundred different ways.

Even if she knew how the story should end, how she  _ thought _ it would end, it didn’t mean there were any guarantees.

And she didn’t want to leap without a net this time.  Didn’t want to fall and not be sure, be absolutely certain that there would be someone to catch her.

That he would be there to catch her.

“Varric.”  He glanced up from his paperwork, eyes slightly distant as she had interrupted a thought, a moment when he was creating and seeing something only he could fully grasped until it was transcribed given life on parchment.

“Hmmm?”  It took him a moment to focus on her face, but when he did, that  _ look _ was there. The one halfway between affection and concern, as though anticipating her next action with eagerness and simultaneously preparing himself for the consequences of what she decided to do.

“l-”  She tried again, and the words were stuck in her throat.  Getting them to flow past her lips was an impossibility.

Because when it came down to it, Marian Hawke was a coward.

But somehow he still realized what she was trying to say, what she couldn’t get past her tongue.  Varric knew her the way no one else did, so it shouldn’t have come as a surprise.

The look turned into a fully self-satisfied smirk. “I know.  And I do, too.”  He took his hand, the one that told so many tales, that wove so many lies and made them truths, and reached for hers, the one that burned, that raged, that destroyed everything it touched in fire and flame.  And as his fingers met hers-

Her eyes flew open and met a sight that was painfully familiar.

“Fucking Black City.  Fucking Fade. _Fuck_.”


	13. A terrible beauty is born.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 9: A moment they considered their future.

There was a moment.  Just a moment, mind you.  Between one blink of an eye and the next, where inhalation became exhalation.  And in that moment she saw it all laid out before her.

The ugliness of the the Blight’s touch on the land had been plowed under, and where Darkspawn had sown carnage, shocks of wheat began to take hold, green and new and fragile.  They were shaky, unsure, but they were there.  And there was none of the Taint about them, no sinister glow of  _ otherness _ that would indicate that the Archdemon still had a hold on the land.  It was free, and so was Lothering.  

So was the Circle at Kinloch, long abandoned as a holding place for mages. Instead it had become a haven for learning, literature thought lost finally brought to light, salvaged from the wreckage that had occurred. Darkness was banished from the rooms, and the reminders of Harrowings past were destroyed.  Dormitories were created to house mage and non-mage alike, those who wanted to study magic instead of fear it, to learn of its wonders and its dangers without worrying about the branding of apostasy. The demons, both real and internal, had been relegated to their side of the Veil.

Templars and mages, still often at odds with one another, worked in tandem at last, perhaps an uneasy alliance, held together by those with no powers, no stake in the game other than the safety of the world. Advisors both magical and mundane worked together to solve problems, settle arguments, and bring their small corners of the world peace.  It wasn’t perfect, but then life wasn’t meant to be.  Perfect meant boring.  Perfect didn’t allow for growth, for learning, for mistakes that taught lessons that were invaluable.

Skyhold was no longer the keep that housed a standing army.  Yes there were troops, and they had sworn their fealty to the Inquisition, but it was not fighting a war against an Elder One.  He had been defeated spectacularly, and much to the chagrin of the Venatori, who scattered and fled like ants whose nest had been disturbed.  They had no center and couldn’t hold. On the contrary, Lavellan  _ was  _ the center of the Inquisition, a mage who held the fate of nations in the palms of her hands.  Fortunately they were gentle ones, hands that wished to unify the countries of Thedas, to make them cohesive if not a single entity.  She no longer fought against a hopeful god; she battled enmity and discord, standing outside of the raging battles, bringing forces together over a table to settle differences without bloodshed.  She didn’t always succeed, and those failures lived behind her eyes, a constant sorrow that took their toll, but in those moments when she grieved and struggled, her Commander stood, a solid presence for her to lean on as she needed, to stand beside her as she wished, her equal, but ever deferential to the woman who had led them all to victory.

And Kirkwall.  Oh, the City of  Chains was as strangely familiar as an old tune played on a new instrument.  Walls has been reconstructed, buildings razed and reborn, but somehow there was still a feeling that just beneath the surface, the truth dwelt.  It was a city of nightmares, one that stole dreams and fostered despair.   But there was brightness even in its most shadowed corners.  Flowers around the Vhenadahl in the alienage.  Fresh bread baking in Lowtown, waking stomachs with its delicious aroma.  Hawkers selling their wares in front of a Chantry that was being rebuilt, only with more humility in mind for its construction than before.  The size of the building didn’t matter, only the faith and fortitude of its believers and teachers.  Ostentation had ended in explosion; there was hope that understatement would be more palatable to the masses.

And somewhere amid all the growth, the Hanged Man still reigned, a soiled dove of a building that refused to change and accept the veneer of civility.  It was what it always had been and always would be: a haven for highborn and low, who dwelt on equal footing once they walked through its doors.  It was a landmark, and as important as the newest shrine to the Maker.  It had to exist, a refuge for anyone seeking anonymity and alcohol. 

Above the den of iniquity he stood, as he always did, gazing into the fire as the world continued to move in a somewhat drunken haze around him.  He was so real that she attempted to reach out and touch him, but he turned as though hearing something, and she pulled back her hand.  From behind, another figure emerged, a woman his height with a cherubic face and a smile that spoke of sin and seduction.  And the possessiveness she saw in that dwarven woman’s eyes likely mirrored her own.  There was something about Varric Tethras that brought out the primal instinct to claim, to make him one’s own.  With a hand on his arm, it was obvious that Bianca, because who else would she be, called him hers. And there was nothing Hawke could do to counter, to fend her off or send her away from where she should have been.  

She breathed out.  Finished blinking.  And realized that peace lay in front of her, victory over the evils of the world that threatened the very heart of life in Thedas…and she was forced to watch from the far side of the Fade, where she could look but never touch, never again be a part of the battles that ended in triumph and good ale.  She had lost it all so that they could gain the upper hand, and while she would do the same again without hesitation, say goodbye to everyone she had ever loved, it burned in her gut like the fire that was always bursting forth from her hands.  She wiped the stinging moisture from her eyes because even alone in the Fade with only the fearlings and lost dreams to see, she wouldn’t cry.

The Nightmare didn’t deserve her tears.

Corypheus wouldn’t bring her low.

They would be defeated.

And staring into the abyss, Hawke smiled.


	14. The stone's in the midst of all.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 10: Free Day!

“Tell me why I have to do this again.”

“Because I’m tired of waiting on you hand and foot.  Blondie said it was high time you started moving around so your bed sores didn’t get bed sores.”

She groaned.  “Has  _ he _ had a sword run through his middle and lived to tell about it? No.  So why does he get to say when I’m ready to move?”

Varric stared down his nose at her.  “You do remember that he works as a healer, that it’s essentially his occupation, or did your brains get addled when you were flung around by the Arishok and you forgot that little detail?”

“My brain is just fine, thank you.”

“That’s always been debatable, but continue.”

“But I’m in  _ pain _ , Tethras.  My side feels like I had a large sharp piece of metal run through it, which come to think of it, I have.  So if I want to lie on my ass for a few more days and wallow in misery-”

“And your own filth, don’t forget that part.”

“Hey, Orana’s been helping me out since you wouldn’t volunteer.  Some friend you are.”

“Yes, I can’t imagine why ‘changing the sheets and sponge bathing my irascible best friend’ weren’t high on my list of things I looked forward to in life,” he replied drily.  “Besides, you’d probably flash me and then blame me for looking.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I could hardly  _ blame  _ you, I’m irresistible.”

“Incorrigible, more like it.  Now stop stalling and get your ass out of that bed and on your feet.”

The sigh was dramatic, worthy of a stage performance in Val Royeaux.  “Oh, you wound me, Varric.”

“No, again, that would be the sword, Hawke.  I’m trying to improve your lot in life, as easy as it would be to close the door behind me and forget your existence.”

“I’m your meal ticket.  You’re not going anywhere.”

“Unlike you.” He put out a hand.  “Come on, haul your ass up.”

It was more than slightly exhausting to pull herself into a seated position with the wound in her side pulling and sending pain through her body as she moved to sit up.  By the time she was able to slide her legs under her and move into a sitting position, still holding onto Varric, she was painting, and beads of sweat had gathered on her forehead.  “This...is bullshit….” she said with a gasp.  

“It’s just the beginning.  You sat up, now stand up.”

“That...was enough for today.”

“Not a chance. You got that far, now get your feet under you and  _ stand _ .”

“I can’t.  Not now.”

“Yes you can.” His voice was no nonsense, clipped and cold in a tone she had never heard before.  “You’re a fighter; you’re not getting off that easily by any stretch of the imagination. Stand up.”

She wanted to growl at him, but she didn’t think she’d have the lung capacity to do that and stand.  But she’d show the bastard she could, which even she herself wasn’t sure of until she pushed herself up on unsteady legs.  

The fire in her side burned, screaming with the agony of so much so soon, but she needed to do this, needed to prove to him that she wouldn’t be beaten by something like a blade of steel rearranging her innards.

“Tell me.”

He looked up at her.  “Tell you what?”

“Anything,” she gasped, trying not to let the pain bring tears to her eyes.  

He didn’t pause to think, he simply started talking, filling the silence with the distraction of his voice.  “I wasn’t going to write, you know,” he started, casually as they shuffled from the bed across the room at a magnificently slow pace.  “I had a thousand stories in my head, but who had ever heard of a dwarf doing something with his hands that didn’t involve trade or stone or wiping Darkspawn out of existence.  I didn’t have any hope that I could go anywhere, do anything with what was going on up here.”  He tapped his forehead.  “Dwarves didn’t dream, how could I imagine worlds larger than what was in front of me?” Varric said all of this matter-of-factly, but Hawke knew that there was an old pain there.  She wouldn’t have said anything to interrupt his train of thought, however, even if she could have done more than pull painful breaths through clenched teeth.  

“Maybe I should have pushed myself more with the earlier nugshit that flowed from my quill, but I didn’t, and so those pieces were...they weren’t much more than the scribblings of an idiot with a measure of talent and a chip on his shoulder.  Keep moving.  I’m not carrying your sorry ass back to bed.  You’re not exactly built like a delicate fucking flower.” She shot him a look but didn’t speak.  “Yeah, you have the strength to make that face, you can keep walking.”  She leaned a little more heavily on him, his shoulder just  far enough below her that she could use him as steady support.   He kept his arm around her waist, despite his protestation ready to catch her if she fell, but letting her, no, making her move on her own.  Part of her hated him for that, but the part of her that wasn’t petty and in pain knew that it was right, that  _ he  _ was right, as much as it got her ass.

“Watch the rug. Good. But some idiot decided that what I wrote was good enough to bind and print. And my agent...well, there’s a reason that my books are blacklisted from most Chantries, and it’s not actually because of their content.  It’s because the forbidden sells.  Yes, that’s right, surprisingly agents will occasionally...exaggerate the truth on behalf of their clients if they think it will gain a few more sales.  And mine is worth every penny I pay her.”  They had reached the door of her room, the outside world just steps away, but she shook her head when he looked up at her, silently questioning.  She wasn’t ready to face any part of the outside world, not when even breathing deeply made her want to fall to her knees in agony.

Painstakingly, they turned towards the bed, exhaustion in her disused muscles causing arms and legs to tremble slightly.  She squeezed his shoulders with her fingers, and to his credit he didn’t so much as flinch at the death grip she gave him.  He would be bruised, but it didn’t matter.  She was all that did, and he would cut out his tongue before complaining about a little discomfort with the state she was in.  “Ready for the shuffle back? You can do this, and I promise I won’t comment about the snails that have outlapped us twice since we started, and don’t think about using any magic to set me on fire, Marian.  You do that, I’m telling Blondie, and he’ll give you the double strength healing potions. The ones with the aftertaste you can’t get out of your mouth for a week.”  

“Asshole,” she managed, and he chuckled, careful not to jostle her as he laughed.

“Never pretended to be anything else. Speaking of me, which is what we were doing before you decided to interrupt with your verbal tirade, those books allowed me to start on Hard in Hightown.  And let’s be honest, I should stick with serial mysteries. Angst is fine when it’s tied to the hardship of the common man, but mixing it with romance? I’ll leave that to the Orlesians...and reality.  The market is saturated enough.  Though it’s too bad, really, I had a few ideas for a certain red-headed guard captain to have her own starring role.”  She almost collapsed onto the mattress, but he helped to ease her down so she wouldn’t jostle her wounds any more than they already were.  Exhaustion practically poured off of her and she was covered in perspiration, quivering with the exertion of even that short journey. He reached for one of the clean cloths that had been kept by the bed for changing her dressings, and used it to dry her skin before she lay back down, eyes closed in pain.  “I’ll have Orana fetch our erstwhile healer to come and make sure that your insides are still...inside.”

She nodded, still too tired to form sentences, and he went to the door, giving the housekeeper instructions.  “Of course.  Is Serrah Hawke-”

“Just worn out.  She’ll be fine. It takes more than a Qunari invasion to bring her low.”  The smile on his face didn’t quite meet his eyes, but the elven woman didn’t notice as she returned the grin, relieved, and went off to send for Anders.

“Varric.”  Her voice was croaking, weak, and he didn’t want to turn around and see her like that anymore. He wanted her healthy and whole and Maker’s balls even setting his hair on fire if it meant that she was  _ Hawke _ again.  Having her lie in bed he could pretend she was just resting, spin a story in his mind about some minor illness that laid her up which could allow him to rest.  But feeling her struggle just to move across her bedroom...it tore at his gut, made him want to run screaming...or find the pieces of that horned bastard and open Bianca up on the corpse until there was nothing left but dust. He had almost killed her...and Varric hadn’t been able to stop it, had been helpless while she has been speared, hoisted, and thrown to the ground. But she had still won.  

It had solidified his belief in the Maker when she was still breathing at the end.

“Varric,” she said again, slightly stronger the second time.

He made his way back to her side. “I’m not going anywhere.”  

She waved a hand weakly at him.  “I know.  Mother hen.”  There was a pause as though she had to gather her strength again, and then, “What were you going to call it?”

“Call what?”  He sat in the chair by her bedside that hadn’t moved since they had carried her back to her rooms. 

“The book...Aveline’s.”

“Andraste’s enflamed ass, I don’t know, Hawke, it was just an idea I had…’Swords & Shields,’ or something equally awful, probably.”  The woman was healing from a sword in the gut and this was what she decided to focus on?  

Her smile was beatific, serene. “Aveline will kill you.”

“I know.  Why do you think I-”

“You...have to do it.”

“Are you crazy?”

She opened one eye and just stared at him.  “Yes.”

“So why in the Void would I agree to this?”

“Because...I promise to get better if you do.”

His eyes widened.  “Marian, are fucking  _ bribing _ me with your life?”

She closed her eye again, settled back against the cushions. “Maybe.”

The dread that had settled into his chest loosened at her tone. “You’re possibly evil.”

“I...can accept that.”

“Fine.  I’ll do this, as long as you promise to protect me from her fury when she realizes what we’ve done.”

“Correction.  What  _ you’ve _ done.  I’m...just an invalid.”  Her smile turned wicked, and the fear dissipated completely. “But yes.  I promise.”

“I’m holding you to that.”

“Wouldn’t expect less.”  She put her hand out, slid it across the cover, and he took it without hesitation.  Hawke would be herself again.  He felt that in the strength of her fingers wrapped around his, saw it in the grin that didn’t fade away even as she slid into sleep.

He allowed himself to rest his head against the chair’s cushion, slide into the oblivion of sleep that had been absent for days while he waited for the tide to turn for her.

Life would go back to normal.

Until the next crisis shook the stones of Kirkwall.


End file.
